


Reunion

by elaine



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-22
Updated: 1999-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 05:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14394906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elaine/pseuds/elaine
Summary: Three years after leaving Chicago, Turnbull meets an old comrade





	Reunion

 

The rumours start shortly after I arrive at detachment headquarters. Just a few whispers at first, and the occasional glance in my direction, which I ignore. By mid-morning I've been asked twice if I know anything about it. I answer, truthfully, that I do not. Finally, at four p.m., Staff Sergeant Willerton announces that Sergeant Benton Fraser will be joining the detachment within two weeks. I listen in a daze to the usual platitudes about making the new member welcome and escape to my patrol vehicle before the questions can start in earnest.

I am going to see him again.

Distantly, I am aware that my mouth is dry and my palms are sweaty. For the last two and a half years I have told myself that it was all over, that I would never see him again. Time makes liars of us all, they say. Most of my colleagues know that I have worked with Benton Fraser, in Chicago. In truth, it's probably the only thing about me that they find even remotely interesting. When I failed to elaborate on that bare fact, to produce stories about one of the most famous Mounties of recent times (or infamous, depending on your point of view), my fellow Mounties rapidly lost interest in me, a circumstance for which I was profoundly grateful.

Even as I think that, I realise that this situation is unlikely to continue. Over the next few days I will be grilled unmercifully for every crumb of information I possess. I wonder what I will tell them…

*

The last time I saw Fraser, he was setting off with Ray Kowalski to find the Hand of Franklin. I doubt that any of us, least of all the two of them, believed that they would find it, but find it they did. In the uproar that followed, I remember Fraser's face, mildly bewildered by his sudden notoriety, on the television screen at the Consulate. Inspector Thatcher had been put out, to say the least, but she also clearly relished the prospect of his return.

He didn't return. Ray Kowalski arrived one day, alone, and took up his job again. Of Fraser he would only say that he wanted to remain in Canada. Ray clearly, had not shared that desire. I waited, hoping against hope, but after a year I knew. I requested a transfer. It took several months to come through, and had been to a small town in the far north of Ontario.

From the beginning my new posting had been a disaster. My colleagues had resented the stories I told of Fraser and the Consulate, assuming that I considered myself superior to them. Within three months I had transferred again, this time to my current posting. I did not make the same mistake twice.

*

At last the day of his arrival is here. I have told myself over and over that I will behave normally, I will not presume on our previous acquaintance or make a fool of myself by being too eager. It has been more than three years since he left Chicago to find his mother's murderer and I have changed. I am older and wiser now. I know he is not, never can be, interested in me in any way, least of all the way I would most like him to be.

Still, I make an extra effort when polishing my shoes and ironing my uniform. My hair was trimmed yesterday and I've taken great care with my shaving. Miraculously, I have managed not to cut myself, in spite of my nervousness.

At ten a.m. he arrives. He does not appear, at first, to have changed at all. I greet him quietly and return to my desk amid curious stares. He does not appear to be surprised at my presence here and I wonder if he already knew. Staff Sergeant Willerton appears in the doorway of his office and Fraser follows him inside.

An hour later, Fraser is sitting behind a desk, organising his equipment and pretending not to notice as Dief approaches my desk and favours me with a soulful 'I'm hungry, feed me' look. Obviously he remembers the days when he was my most faithful kitchen assistant and I realise that I've missed him. He has quite a good palate for a wolf.

Fraser's desk is quite close to mine. Not close enough to make conversation easy, and I wouldn't know what to say to him in any case. However we are close enough that I can study him surreptitiously. He has aged, a little. There are lines at the corners of his eyes which weren't there before and he seems sadder, more withdrawn than I remember, though he was never particularly outgoing at the best of times.

Now that he is here it occurs to me that he could ruin my life and my career in this town, if he wished, simply by allowing the benign contempt with which he treated me in Chicago to become obvious. I hope he will not do that. I have come to like this place and I don't want the disruption of moving to another posting. More than ever, I resolve to keep my distance until he has time to see that I am no longer the clown he once thought me.

*

It was hardly his fault, of course. I sometimes cringe at the memory of my behaviour when I first arrived in Chicago. The opportunity to be near the man I idolised lead me into foolishness; seeking to demonstrate my dedication to duty and my superior ability made me awkward and prone to bouts of literal mindedness which were no doubt extremely irritating. By the time I realised what I was doing it was too late. All my attempts to pull myself together failed under his patronising regard.

I must not allow it to happen again, so I try to pretend that he is not there. It is not easy. My pen falters and after half an hour it is a relief to receive a call out. A simple shoplifting charge that will not require too much in the way of initiative on my part. In half an hour it is all over. The boy, a local, has returned the stolen goods and his mortified parents have agreed that he will work at the store four hours a week for a minimal wage for the next three weeks. The store's owner has dropped the charges. If the boy performs his duties well, he will be employed part time at a higher wage. All in all, a good outcome.

When I return to headquarters Fraser has gone out on patrol with Constable Betchley. I try not to show my relief.

Now that he is actually here, my colleagues are even more eager for any scrap of information I can give them, but what can I tell them? That the legendary son of a legendary father has feet of clay, that he is human, just as they are? That he is a lonely and distant man, who, for all his kindness towards strangers and the helpless, is deeply unapproachable on a more intimate level. That the only exceptions he allowed to this habit were for two Americans who both left him, eventually, to be alone again. I could never betray him to the others in that way.

The realisation that I pity him comes as a shock to me. I am, after all, as lonely as he, but I have never lost as much as he has. I keep in touch with the lives of those I knew in Chicago, mostly by indirect means. I know that Ray Vecchio is still in Florida, though not with Stella Kowalski. Francesca is busy looking after her unexpected brood of children, but not too busy to write to me occasionally. Ray Kowalski is still basking in the limelight of being one of the team that found the Hand of Franklin, and still a police officer. I wonder if Fraser knows these things, but I don't have the courage to raise the subject.

*

Days pass, then weeks. I know our colleagues are puzzled by our lack of interaction, but nobody has questioned me. I am sure that they haven't asked Fraser. He keeps a distance from us all. Gradually I come to realise that he is being groomed to take over from Staff Sergeant Willerton, who is due to retire in another year. The morale in this detachment has been low for several years and Willerton has not been able to improve it. Fraser is a hero to most of these people; perhaps he can do it, but not if he continues to isolate himself in this way.

He is still here, working, long after his shift has finished. This is not uncommon, as it was also in Chicago. At least he is not living on the premises. In a few minutes my shift will be over and it is my responsibility to close up. This detachment is too small to stay open round the clock, so members take turns to answer call outs. This week Constables Rowe and Nygren are on duty, next week it will be Constable Betchley and me.

On an impulse, I walk over to his desk. "Sir, it's time for me to lock up."

He looks up at me, mild surprise on his face. "It's all right Turnbull, I can lock up when I'm finished."

I ought to leave it at that, but I'll have to talk to him sometime, and tonight seems like a good opportunity. "I was going to eat at Rolinda's. Perhaps you'd care to join me? The food is quite good."

Dief pricks up his ears hopefully. Actually, the food no more than passable, I could cook better meals myself, but it will do for this situation. I watch as Fraser's expression becomes cautious but, just when I expect him to refuse, he accepts my invitation. I wait for him to finish a few details and we all leave together.

We walk to Rolinda's Bistro. It's not far from headquarters and it's a lovely evening. There are only a few people at the café and I know some of them. As a courtesy I introduce Fraser, then we settle at our table and survey the menu while Dief is escorted to the kitchen… a violation of the health regulations, but neither of us comment. I don't really need to look at the menu; I practically know it by heart, but I wait until Fraser makes his choice, which he does with characteristic lack of interest in the food itself.

Over the course of the meal we talk mostly about our current posting. I tell him a little of the local history and find he's already quite knowledgeable on the subject. By the time we've finished our meals we've both relaxed a little.

"Would you like coffee Constable? Sergeant?" The waitress is Rolinda's daughter, a slender pretty girl who can't keep her eyes off Fraser.

"Well… uh…" I feel the colour rising in my cheeks and pull myself together. "Perhaps you'd prefer tea, Sir? I have some chamomile at my house."

To my surprise, Fraser accepts and we pay our checks and leave. Dief, at least, appears to be satisfied with the quality of his food. He prances along between us, tail waving happily. I know he's been puzzled by the lack of interaction between Fraser and me, and now he's obviously pleased to see us together.

It's still light, even this late in the summer and instead of returning to headquarters to pick up my car, we walk. It's only a half-hour walk to my house on the edge of town. I'm very aware of Fraser's silence beside me, and wonder if he's sorry he agreed to accompany me. I ask him if he's found a place to live, but he hasn't; is still living in a motel room. It's not difficult to find a house to rent in this town, but I don't comment on his tardiness. Perhaps he's already regretting his posting here. I hope that it's not due to my presence.

The light is finally fading as we reach my house; the endless summer evenings are slowly giving way to winter's darkness. I give him a quick tour. It's small, only two bedrooms, one of which is tiny and serves as my studio. The whole house is sparsely furnished, though not so bare as the apartment I had in Chicago. I leave him in the lounge while I retreat to the kitchen to make our tea. While I wait for the kettle to boil I hear him moving around and then the music starts. It's Tracy Jenkins's latest release, a compilation of her greatest hits. The second track is Nobody's Girl and I fancy I can hear Fraser singing along with the chorus, as he did when she recorded the original.

I carry the mugs out into the lounge. Fraser is staring at the painting I did of Navy Pier at night, with the Ferris Wheel lit up. He turns with a start when I clear my throat. "Do you miss Chicago?" It's the closest thing to a personal question I've asked him this evening.

He smiles. "Chicago? No. The people…" his smile fades. "Yes, sometimes. And you?"

"I miss some things. And the people, of course. I try to stay in touch, but it isn't always easy." I wait. The opening is there for him now, if he wants to ask.

Instead he turns away. I could push him for a response, or fill the gap with babble, but I don't. I sip my tea and wait.

Fraser's shoulders lift in a minute shrug. "What do you expect from me, Turnbull?" He sounds weary, defeated.

My first reaction is surprise. I didn't have any conscious agenda in inviting him here, but I realise that in this instance he has been more perceptive than I. I stare at him in dismay… this was precisely the situation I meant to avoid.

Perhaps he misinterprets my silence, for he sighs. "I'm sorry if I raised expectations. You ought to know that I have very little to offer in the way of…"

"No! It's not that… I mean…" I take a deep breath and pause to gather my thoughts. I am dismayed by the unhappiness in his voice and his apparent acceptance of his situation. "I think you have a lot to… friendship, for instance and companionship, and… and a certain commonality of interests…"

"Unlike certain other friendships in the past." He smiles faintly.

"Well, yes." I agree cautiously, knowing exactly to whom he is referring. "After all, they are Americans. There are just some things…"

"Understood, Turnbull." His voice warns me not to elaborate further. He waits.

This is delicate. I think I know what he's waiting for, but if I'm wrong it will be very embarrassing for both of us. "And there is…" oh dear… "there is… uh, are… other forms of communication."

Fraser rubs his eyebrow distractedly. "You mean sex."

"Yes, sir." The heat rises in my face and I have to force myself not to snap to attention. I would never have expected this of him. He has always presented the appearance of a man who is completely ignorant of sexual matters, even though I know better than to believe it. "If you want."

We stare at each other for a moment and I wonder what he is thinking. His face is blank, but his eyes speak of suffering and loneliness beyond my imagination. Then he walks past me to the main bedroom with a brief command to Dief, who settles on the floor with the air of a wolf who would never even consider getting onto the couch. I follow helplessly behind him.

I draw the curtains in silence and switch on the light. It is a low wattage bulb and lights the room rather dimly. Behind me Fraser has started to loosen his tie. Obviously he does not want or expect me to assist, so I turn away and begin to undress.

I take time to fold away my pants and jacket and lay my gun belt on the table. My shoes go into the closet and my shirt and underwear into the laundry basket. At last I can delay no longer and I turn. Fraser is naked, facing me, and I stare in wonder at his beauty. In the low light his pale skin seems luminous. He is smoothly muscular in the way of men who lead hard physical lifestyles and his body is almost free of hair, except for a dark patch at his groin. He is partially aroused, as I am, and his cock droops heavily against his left thigh, the tip shrouded by its foreskin.

My heart is pounding as I step forward. The bedroom is small and the double bed, a luxury provided by my landlord, takes up most of the space. It only requires two steps before I am standing close enough to touch. I would like to kiss him, but I suspect he would find it too intimate a gesture and so I hesitate. Finally I lift my hand and touch my fingertips to the centre of his chest. His eyes widen a little as though this was unexpected.

His skin feels as smooth as it looks and my hand wants to feel more of it. I flatten my palm against his chest and slide it down and across his chest to his ribs. Not by accident, my thumb brushes his nipple and he emits a low moan. My hand continues its downward journey, curving around his side and into the small of his back before coming to rest on his buttock. My other hand traces the outline of his collarbone.

We are both breathing fast, and with each indrawn breath our chests almost touch. I can feel my erection growing, hardening, and then Fraser's cock, equally hard, brushing against it. I gasp and begin to tremble. He has not touched me so far, but now his hands come to rest on my hips drawing me closer. A moment later he is pressed against the wall and I am pressed against him, so close that my right leg is between his and we are joined from chest to groin.

The urge to kiss him returns, so badly that I bow my head and bury my face in his throat where I can touch him with my lips without presuming on his tolerance. We move against each other with a contained desperation and our hands begin to explore. Fraser's breath is harsh in my ear, almost sobbing. His cock is hard against my belly and mine against his. I move so they are pressed together and Fraser cries out.

I don't want it to end this way, but it takes a tremendous effort to draw away and turn to the bed. Fraser follows me as I slide across the bed, making room for him. We lie side by side, facing each other, but I find it increasingly difficult to meet his eyes. There is a neediness in them that conflicts with my image of him as being entirely self-sufficient. I don't want to think about what he sees in my eyes.

We're both in danger of ending this far too soon. I draw in a few deep breaths and see that Fraser is also struggling to control himself. Slowly, we begin again, touching gently, exploring. I suck his nipple, but his reaction is so strong that I have to stop almost immediately. My fingers stroke his cock gently, investigating the novel sensation of his foreskin.

Through it all I am so focussed on him that I'm hardly aware of what he is doing to me, except for the tightening in my groin and the electric tingle in my thighs. His hips are moving almost imperceptibly, but I can see the fluid ripple of the muscles in his belly as he moves in counterpoint to each stroke of my hand. After a time I release him and slide my hand down between his legs.

Fraser's eyes are closed, his head thrown back, but as I touch him there he shudders and lifts his head to look at me. He doesn't speak; seems to be incapable of speech, but I know what he wants. He moans as I position myself between his legs, and a shudder runs through his body.

There is only a moment's resistance and then the ring of muscle relaxes and I push cautiously inside. Impatience flares in his eyes but I refuse to be hurried. I don't know how long it has been for him and I will not risk hurting him. After the first moments it's easy. I slide into him smoothly, then withdraw a little. His body arches, plunging himself onto my cock. Each thrust goes a little deeper until he is writhing, lost in sensation.

I would never have imagined him like this. I have always seen him as an example to emulate at work, so dedicated and controlled; now I've discovered that in bed he is more passionate and abandoned than I have ever been. Even here, he is an enigma to me.

With a groan I lower myself across his body. I want to feel his heat. I want to feel his movements from the outside as well as the inside, while his cock beats a frantic tattoo against my belly. This is everything I've ever dreamed of and more. I hear the breath catch in his throat, a curiously vulnerable sound, and wet heat explodes between us.

The soft clutch and release around my cock has me teetering on the brink but I hold back. Just a few seconds and I can let go. I don't want to take the chance of causing injury while he is so overcome that he wouldn't even be aware of it. At last he relaxes beneath me and my control disintegrates. Spasms shake my body until it seems like it will never end.

Eventually I drag myself to the bathroom on rubbery legs and return with a damp washcloth. Fraser has not moved at all and is lying in a magnificent sprawl, his eyes closed, his hair clinging in damp wisps to his face. When I start to clean him up he stirs reluctantly and opens his eyes but says nothing. That's all right, I am no more inclined to talk than he is.

I lie down beside him and pull the covers over us, though I'm not sure if he'll want to stay. After a while I turn on my side, facing away from him and reach for my toy wolf. Fraser may think it's ridiculous for a grown man to sleep with a toy, but Laurier has been my companion on many a lonely night and I've grown accustomed to him. I'm drifting off to sleep when I feel a warm body press against my back and an arm slide around my waist. The last thing I'm aware of as I drift into sleep is the heat of Fraser's breath on the nape of my neck.

*

It's just becoming light when I wake, around five a.m. I can feel the emptiness behind me and hear the rustle of clothing as Fraser dresses. I try to swallow my disappointment that he is sneaking out like this. Perhaps he won't want to face me now; perhaps he's ashamed of having sex with me. I lie still and try to breathe slowly. The sound of dressing stops and a weight settles on the edge of the bed. A hand touches my shoulder lightly, and a voice whispers my name.

I roll over to face him. He looks better this morning, more relaxed than he has been since he arrived in this town. I smile up at him and try to stifle a yawn. It's early, even for me.

Fraser smiles hesitantly. "I need to go back to the motel before I go on duty. For a shower and change of clothes."

Of course. I should have thought of that. My spirits rise considerably. "I'll see you later, then."

"No you won't. You're rostered off today, remember?" He looks at me seriously, and I brace myself for what will come next. Instructions to forget what has happened between us, perhaps, or apologies for overstepping the bounds of our professional relationship. But he surprises me again. "I… enjoyed last night. All of it, I mean… the dinner and …"

I can hardly believe my good fortune. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? I can cook you a meal."

His eyes widen, then he nods once, decisively. "That would be… very pleasant. My duty finishes at six p.m. today."

After he leaves I try to go back to sleep, but I can't. After thirty minutes I get up and shower, then start to clean the house. When I'm satisfied everything is spotless I pore over my recipe books searching for inspiration. Finally I settle on a menu that will satisfy my need to prepare something special, but which won't be so ostentatious that it will betray my feelings completely.

Of course, I need to stock up on some of the ingredients, and once the shopping's done I start all over on cleaning the house. I ought to work on my painting, but I'm far too nervous to be able to do that. I consult my CD collection and chose a range of classical music. I know Fraser likes the classics. It will demonstrate my versatility, and the beautiful, austere music I've selected will be a suitable backdrop for intelligent conversation. At five p.m. I shower again and dress in jeans and a sweater, then start the preparations for the meal.

By seven p.m. there's no sign of him and I'm struggling not to give way to complete despair. He's changed his mind… or perhaps he's just busy and has stayed late. Worse, he may have been injured in some fracas. When the doorbell rings I hasten to answer and the reason for his tardiness is revealed. He had returned to his motel to change out of his uniform and, obviously, to drop Dief off. My spirits soar. He obviously places some value on this assignation, even though he's only wearing jeans and a blue and grey plaid shirt which enhances the colour of his eyes.

He waits politely for me to gather my wits and invite him inside. I don't know quite what happened next, but by the time we reach the lounge, only a few steps away, I have torn open his shirt, sending buttons flying everywhere. As we fall onto the couch I make a mental note to find the buttons and sew them on again, then everything else melts away before the sensation of his skin beneath my lips.

Fraser is just as eager as I am. His hands find their way under my sweater and caress me urgently while I kiss and lick and even nip gently at his nipples. His body arches under mine and I slide down it, needing to touch as much as possible. I pull open his jeans and shorts and bury my mouth in the heat of his groin.

Fraser lifts the sweater over my head and begins to pluck at my nipples, sending shivers through my body. I wrench open my jeans and shorts and fall across his body thrusting against his cock. We both moan with pleasure, but I want more. I force myself to pull away and discard the rest of my clothing. Fraser watches me in silence as I straddle his hips and lower myself onto his cock.

It's been so long since I last felt that sensation of being filled by another body. I draw in a shaken breath and struggle for control. Fraser's face is unreadable and I wonder for a panicked moment whether he would rather not do this. Then he pushes himself up into me with a soft grunt. I hold myself in a crouch riding his cock with slow deliberation.

His hands are still moving slowly over my chest, the short nails teasing my skin. Then Fraser levers himself upright and begins to suck my nipples. I stare down at his dark head, occasionally catching a glimpse of pursed, suckling lips or the flicker of a pink tongue. It's almost unbearably erotic. He reaches for my cock. I watch in silence as his fingers tease at my cockhead, spreading the pre-cum over the surface. He closes his fist lightly around the shaft and pumps it slowly. My body leans into his touch and I sob with pleasure.

Too soon our bodies betray us. I feel the first indications of orgasm and push Fraser down so that his head is resting on the arm of the couch and spread myself over him. He thrusts into me with a wild energy while I plunge down onto his cock. We're both breathing in harsh gasps, which choke off as Fraser's hips arc up under me in one endless thrust. My cock pulses fiercely within his grasp and I collapse across him.

*

Once again I am stunned by his passionate response to me. It's not as though he cares for me at all, he is simply so needy that he will take anything that is offered. I remind myself of the times in the past when he has treated me with barely concealed contempt, not even aware that I knew. It made no difference to me then and it makes no difference now. I love him and it seems I will always love him, regardless of the fact that he will never return that love.

If anything, I am worried by his reactions. This is not the Fraser I knew in Chicago, a man who would deal with any emotion by repressing it as deeply as possible. On the surface he does not appear to have changed, but he is a different person altogether.

His eyes are closed, but he is awake. I start to lift myself off him but he makes a quiet protesting sound. He opens his eyes and looks up at me and I can tell that he is not yet sated. He needs more but will not ask for it. I will give it to him anyway.

I slide down his body, licking and kissing, tasting the sweat and the semen on his belly until he trembles beneath me. His body is beautifully framed by the light blue of his shirt and the darker blue of his jeans. I kiss the lax cock and then make my way back up to his nipples. This seems to be what he prefers. I pull out all the stops, sucking and nibbling, tugging with my fingers, until he moans helplessly and his cock stirs against my inner thigh.

He is of little assistance as I remove his shirt, even less when I tug his jeans and shorts down his legs and toss them aside as carelessly as I dealt with my own clothing. He watches me passively, but his eyes are hungry, demanding. It thrills me to the core of my being to see him like this.

My cock is so hard it aches... aches to be inside him. But not yet. I move down again and take his cock into my mouth. I can taste my own earthy flavour and the mild sweet-salt of Fraser's ejaculate. It fills me with a desire so intense I begin to shake. I want to be inside him, and he wants me too. I'm almost sure of it, but I raise my head to check with him. His lips part but he doesn't speak. Instead he twists beneath me, onto his belly and, as I draw back to give him space, he pushes up onto his knees, resting his arms on the arm of the couch, presenting himself to me like a rutting animal.

My heart almost stops at the sight of him. I touch the pale smooth flesh of his buttocks almost reverently and see his cock lift between his parted thighs. The submissiveness of his posture sends shivers of lust through me, but then an impatient eye appears over one shoulder and I remember that this is Fraser and submission is not in his nature. Still, I intend to keep him waiting. I crouch behind him, draw his cock back between his legs and apply myself to pleasuring him.

The gasps and moans and involuntary twitches tell me that I am succeeding beyond my wildest dreams. I lick the swollen cockhead, slick with the pre-cum collecting beneath his foreskin, and the tip of my tongue slides beneath the partly retracted covering in search of more. Fraser's body is vibrating with energy and so am I, though somewhere beneath lurks the exhaustion that must soon overtake us both. This is the third time we've made love in less than a day. It's madness, but one that I don't want to find a cure for.

Finally I release Fraser's cock and allow my tongue to travel the smooth path from behind his balls up to his anus. His moans echo around the room as I caress him there and the opening pulses invitingly against my tongue. I tease us both for a time, but I am as impatient as he to move on. When I press the tip of my cock to his opening, he pushes back with a low moan.

Tonight it's easier. He's a little looser, a little more relaxed as his body remembers how to take another man's cock. I slide into him as deeply as possible and hold there, panting. It would take so little to push me over and I don't want to waste this. I'm quite sure I won't have the energy to do it again tonight. Once I feel steadier I begin to thrust. Fraser has made it clear that he doesn't want gentleness and neither do I. We've both been alone too long.

I reach around him and stroke his cock in time with the rapid thrusting of my hips. Fraser groans and lowers his head onto his folded arms, so that all I can see is the length of his broad back and the scar that lies in the centre of it. I feel the warning pulse of his cock and slide my fingers up to the tip, collecting the stinging drops of his orgasm. There's not a lot, after two earlier bouts of lovemaking. I smear it over his belly and continue my thrusts, cradling the heavy, rapidly wilting cock in my hand.

My own climax is very close now. I push myself in to the hilt and hold there for a moment before it hits me. The intensity of it is frightening… stronger than even the first two times. When it's over I am swaying, hardly able to breathe or focus my eyes. Almost in slow motion I start to fall and manage to bring Fraser with me so that we're lying, still joined by my cock, on our sides with my back against the back of the couch.

I lie there listening to the pounding of my heart and the roaring in my ears. Fraser is quite still, but his heart, too, is battering against my chest. After a long pause he lifts my hand to his mouth and licks my fingers clean. It's so sensual that my chest contracts and I find it hard to breathe. It means nothing, of course. He has always been orally fixated… the way he licks his bottom lip, when he's lost in thought or nervous is a complete give away. I don't want to read too much into it.

Then he laughs. It's a curious sort of laugh… reluctant, almost ironic. "You'd better call me Ben."

Since I've never called him anything more intimate than Sir, or Constable Fraser, I can understand his amusement at our present situation, but I'm not sure I can make such an adjustment. "Could I call you Benton?" Somehow that seems more appropriate. Friendly without being too intimate.

"If you wish." His voice indicates that he's not really very interested in what I call him.

I take a small risk. "And you could call me Renfield."

"Renfield." He says it drowsily, his voice husky, and I melt inside.

When my cock slips free of him he turns in my arms. He looks wonderful with his hair tousled and damp, his skin… all his skin… flushed and gleaming with sweat. His tongue flickers over his lip and I am tempted to kiss him. I refrain, but it's a close thing. He looks up at me hovering over him and I wonder if perhaps he might want me to kiss him. There's an awkward moment when our eyes meet, broken, ridiculously, by the grumbling of his stomach.

Fraser giggles. Fraser giggles… "Oh dear…"

I look at the clock on the mantle. It's nearly eight p.m. I slide over him to the edge of the couch and stand. "I'll start dinner. Although I think I ought to shower first."

"That sounds like a good idea. Fraser sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch.

He follows me through to the bathroom and waits while I shower quickly. The stall is much too small for two men our size to share. It never seemed to matter before, but now I regret it. While he's washing up I find my spare bathrobe and take it to him, then head for the kitchen.

By the time he joins me, the cooking is well under way and the dishes I've decided on won't take long. He leans against the counter, out of my way and watches me. We're both still in our bathrobes, tacitly acknowledging that it would be pointless to get dressed again.

We eat, mostly in silence, and it's not until we're clearing the dishes away that I realise I've forgotten to put on the music. Benton looks after me in amusement as I rush out to start the CD player. I fear I'm becoming as giddy and as clumsy as I ever was in the Consulate. At least he now knows there is more to me than that. I hope it's enough.

The crystal strains of a Mozart concerto follow us to the bedroom. Not, perhaps, the best music to make love by, but I doubt we'll be making love for quite a while. There should be plenty of time to get to the Tchaikovsky.

Indeed, we lie down on the bed still wearing our bathrobes. Benton's robe has fallen open almost to the hip revealing a long pale leg, and his cock, nestling in the shadow. Rather than arousing me it creates a feeling of tender intimacy that I didn't feel when we were making love. We eye each other uncertainly and I realise that I will have to make the first move. I lean towards him and kiss him gently on the lips.

His lips part under mine without hesitation. Unconsciously, we move closer, exploring with tentative strokes of our tongues. His mouth tastes sweet from the rich dessert we've eaten… but not as sweet as the warm that steals through my veins. It is the first real tenderness we have shown each other and it is more wonderful than anything I could ever have imagined doing with him.

There is no pressure, no reason to hurry on to more strenuous activities, so we just lie there, kissing. After a while it seems only right to slide our hands under the bathrobes and slip them off each other's bodies. Skin to skin, we breathe in each other's scents and tastes, and learn far more than we have in all the years that we've known each other.

Our legs tangle together as we relax into each other's embrace. My cock is swollen a little and tingling pleasantly but without urgency. I wrap myself around Benton's compliant body and abandon myself to the pleasure of it all. Time ceases to have any meaning for me, but eventually I become aware that my lips are becoming sore. I draw back a little and, dazed with happiness, touch my fingers to his cheek. For a moment he responds, then his expression changes and he turns away from me.

"I really ought to go now." His voice is shaking a little, and in spite of his words he makes no move to leave.

I am torn between wanting to ask him what is wrong and the fear that he will think I am presuming on our somewhat nebulous relationship. But when he continues to lie beside me with his face turned away, it seems to me that he wants me to question him.

"Have I done something wrong, Benton?" I touch his shoulder lightly. "I would like you to stay."

"No. It's nothing you've done, Renfield. I should never…" Benton swallows with obvious difficulty and his voice is thickened by unshed tears. "I'm sorry… I can't… when Ray went back to Chicago it was as though something inside me… died. I should never have allowed this to happen."

"I'm glad you did." The words are bold enough but I'm quaking inside. "And although I'm sorry you were hurt, I'm glad Ray left you. I know it's selfish, but…"

He laughs. It sounds like a sob. "Ray didn't leave me. I sent him away."

Nothing could have shocked me more than this admission. It was hard enough to believe that Ray would leave him, but for Benton to have sent him away seems… inconceivable.

Benton is looking at me, his eyes over bright. "Is that so hard to believe, Renfield?" He closes his eyes and sighs. "I suppose it is. I didn't realise I was so… transparent."

"Sometimes I think you're the loneliest human being I've ever met." I stroke his upper arm, trying to soften the impact my words must be having on him. "And the most loyal. For both those reasons, it does seem… surprising."

"We took too much for granted, Ray and I. I thought that he would want to stay in Canada after we found the Hand of Franklin. It was his idea to go looking for it, and I assumed it was his way of telling me he wanted to stay here with me." He brushed his fingers across trembling lips. "Ray assumed that once the adventure was over, I would want to go back to Chicago. We… squabbled a lot. I could see it was hurting him, as it was me, but we didn't seem to be able to stop."

When he doesn't continue I prompt him gently. "Is that why you told him to go?"

"Yes." He attempts a laugh. It fails miserably. "I couldn't go back to Chicago. There were too many… memories. Too many reminders."

There was only one thing, one person, he could be referring to. "Detective Vecchio."

"Ray." He nods wearily. "I always think of Chicago as his city, even though he's not there. It's silly, I know."

"No, I understand." And I do. I associate Chicago with Benton. He's the reason I went there and the reason I left.

"I failed him. Betrayed him, if you will." He seems to draw in on himself, as though unwilling to face those memories. "More assumptions… I never imagined Ray would ever leave me. He believed that I'd understand why he left, that I'd wait for him. I did understand, but I was so lonely…" He smiles sadly, eyes still closed. "You're right about that… I didn't mean to love somebody else. I tried not to. Ray realised almost straight away, when he came back."

"He seemed very distant. Not like I remembered him." I can only imagine what it was like for them all. "What happened, Benton?"

"Ray wouldn't make me choose between them. That's why he moved to Florida."

With Stella Kowalski… it had always struck me as a strange thing to do, to have an affair with the ex-wife of your ex-lover's current lover. Reluctantly I ask the one question that I really don't want answered. "Did you ever think of going to Florida after Ray left you?"

"No." His voice is full of quiet despair. "Ray had made it quite clear. He understood why I'd…" his eyelids tightened. "He understood, but he couldn't live with it."

"Oh, Benton…" I cup my hand over one cheek and kiss the other gently.

"Renfield, don't… it's not fair to you." He swallows. "After Ray went back to Chicago it was easier, safer not to feel, or to need, anything. I resigned myself to being alone and I shut down any part of me that was weak enough to want more than I already had. It worked, too well. I have nothing left to give you." In spite of his efforts, tears leak out from behind his closed lids.

I lean down and lick away the tears. I kiss his damp lashes and, finally, his lips. They part beneath mine as though he has nothing left to protect and I caress his tongue with my own. I want to tell him that everything will be all right. That he will heal, and that in the meantime I have love enough for both of us. That I will never leave him. That love can come in many forms and that quiet companionship and loving respect can be as rewarding in its own way as the passion that he shared with his American lovers. I don't because he wouldn't believe me, not yet.

There will be time enough for that later. I draw him into my arms and cradle his head against my chest as his body starts to shake. I can't tell whether he's laughing or crying, but it doesn't matter. We have all the time in the world..


End file.
